The Honor Due a King (The Bruce Trilogy)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  A small gap tore in our outer line and I redirected them to pull back and close up. The Irish and English had by then completely encircled us. I deflected a hurled spear with my shield, but the jolt stunned me. My left arm stung from wrist to collarbone. As I waited to regain feeling, I glanced between my shield and shoulder at the road south. There, in the blurry distance, Edward’s column flew through the mud and snow.

  My God, what took him so bloody long?

  I lowered my shield a hair more to look around our wavering circle. There were more gaps. Men down. Row upon row of the enemy crushing inward. Terrible, loud, relentless. A chaos of Irish plaids and painted faces. By far, these were not Edward of England’s best trained knights, but they were a fiercer sort – the kind that embraced death as glory, not nobles seeking to preserve themselves for titles and ransom, but men-wolves frenzied by the smell of blood.

  We could not outlast them. Strong as we were, they were just too many.

  Thwack!

  A rock, hurled from a sling, struck my forehead just above my temple. The sudden blast of pain blinded me. I blinked and blinked, yet could see nothing but black. My horse heaved like a roiling sea beneath me. My sword fell. I gripped the edge of my saddle with what strength I could summon.

  Blood pulsed, cold and oozing, from my wound. It seeped into the corner of my eye, stinging. Around me rang the sounds of metal on metal, men grunting with strain, the curdling cry of the wounded, horses stomping.

  I held on, clamped my knees to my horse’s ribs, reminded myself to breathe and wait for the blinding wave to pass. The black cloud began to lighten to gray. A spot of light appeared. Two fuzzy shapes wavered on the ground below me, uttered my name. Their outlines sharpened until I could see the hints of rust in the links of their mail shirts.

  I heard my name again, more clearly. A hand touched my leg and then went around my arm. Randolph and Colin reached up, pulled me to the ground.

  “Edward’s come,” Randolph said between grunts. “They’re retreating.”

  “What?” I swooned and fought to keep my legs beneath me as the blood drained from my head. A loose circle of men held their ground around us, weapons gripped, but no longer warding off blows. I could still hear the ring of metal, oaths, curses, but fading away now.

  Colin steadied my horse with a light hand upon its halter.

  “Seems the Irish wouldn’t follow the orders of the English noblemen,” Randolph said. “The Earl of Ulster was wise enough to call them away before it all fell apart.” He removed a glove and very methodically began to dab at my head wound with his cloak, taking care not to pull at the flap of skin that had been loosed by the sharp edge of the stone. “Another inch and you’d be less one eye. Does it hurt much?”

  “Had worse,” I lied between gritted teeth. More serious wounds, perhaps, but I could scarce remember a pain more intense. It hurt like flaming hell. The stone had slashed deeply, down to the bone. I pressed my fingers to the wound. “Where’s Edward now?”

  Randolph took a few steps away, said a word to another knight surveying the scene still from horseback, and returned. “Chasing them off. He’ll be soaking up the glory over a fire tonight.”

  How like him. Never owning the blame. Always holding up the rare moments when he had made himself of use.

  ***

  Randolph gave me ale. I drank until I was numb from it. Just as I was about to take the last gulp, he snatched it away, made me lie back and told me to close my eyes. I had almost forgotten the pain when he doused the open wound with the fiery drink. I yelped. Then he called on two men to settle me and went to work with a needle and thread, stitching up my head. I winced at every jab.

  “Make quick of it, Thomas. I’ve aged a few and – Ow! Bloody Christ! Careful.”

  “Sorry, Uncle. Still now. Best if you don’t talk anymore until I’m done.”

  I obliged as best I could, but a few cross words left my mouth as he fumbled with the needle. Finally, he inspected his work in the pale firelight and, satisfied it would close up well enough, handed off the needle and thread.

  “Try not to touch it.” Randolph pressed his fingers to the side of my face, tilted it back and looked more closely. “See that it’s cleansed twice a day so no infection sets in.”

  I ignored his commands and let my fingertips wander along the ridges of the lumpy, fresh scar, cross-crossed with its blood-stiff threads. “How the hell am I supposed to get my helmet on?”

  “Don’t touch it, I said.”

  “No more than I need to. It hurts to talk, even. Where did you learn to do that?”

  “Gil. I’ve watched him many times. He can hew an arm off the enemy in one swipe and yet with just a few gentle whips of the needle close up a murderous wound. He sewed me up a few. We could have used a good man like him today.”

  “Aye, and Boyd. Neil. James.” I sighed, recalling old times when none of us would have abandoned the other. “Damn it. Where is Edward?”

  “You’ve a foul mouth this evening.”

  “In a foul mood. Now where is the bastard?”

  Randolph twisted his mouth up and pointed in one direction of our camp where the largest fire blazed and the talk was loud. I got to my feet, waited for the blood to return to my head and went to seek out Edward. He’d done everything to avoid me in the time between his return from pursuing the enemy and now. Naturally, he was in good spirits. Nary a care in the world or a sliver of penance in his heart.

  I ambled into his circle of revelers. Colin, who had developed an unfortunate habit of imitating whoever caught his attention at the moment – in this case a sottish Edward –lowered his drink and ogled my wound.

  “Five dead,” I said. “Duncan Graham lost an arm clear up to his elbow. Another twenty wounded.”

  “That all?” Edward remarked with a lighthearted laugh. He poked a stick at the fire and stirred up sparks. “Fortunate it wasn’t much more. Twenty to one before I got there. Lucky for you I didn’t leave you to wallow in the mud. I could have been halfway to Dublin already.”

  I raised both hands out to the fire. “Shouldn’t have been any dead, Edward. And you should never have gone on so far ahead.”

  “Then drive your men to keep a better pace. The longer it takes us to reach Dublin, the more warning they have.”

  “They already know we’ll be there eventually. Only a matter of when. The women need protection and I’ll not beat my men –”

  “What? Your men?” he interjected.

  I raised my voice, aware of my chastising tone. “Aye, my men. I’ll not beat them on through this mud and squalor to sicken and go lame, or leave the womenfolk to the wolves for the sake of saving a day or two. Then again, why do I argue with you?”

  The cauldron was boiling over. Edward rose from the sack of provisions he was using as a throne, came at me and delivered a restrained punch to my chest. “I knew when I asked you to come, brother, that you would forget whose kingdom this is. Well, I’ll tell you. This is my land.”

  He punched me again, squarely in the breastbone. “My kingdom.” Another punch, and another, thrusting me back with each blow. “My campaign. If you can’t resign yourself to that then go the hell home. Better yet, just go straight to hell.”

  I held my ground at first, wanting badly to rain fists upon his muddled head, but our arguments had never been fruitful. Instead I took a few steps back, let him think a few moments, and calmly said, “Would you truly want that, Edward? Not half of these men are in your service. If I leave, if I say it, the rest go with me.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “I never threaten, Edward. That was a promise.”

  A sea of faces pressed in, watching, listening. Had we been any two other men, they would have been roused to hoots and insults by now, taking sides, wagering on a fight. Although curious, they were apprehensive, divided – more on my side than Edward’s, I would have imagined. Randolph’s flaxen hair caught my sight and I saw in his clear eyes words of warning. He wov
e his way through the throng and hooked a hand under my arm.

  Randolph whispered into my ear, “Make peace, Uncle. I beg. He’d sooner wage war with you than bow to you now. Let’s finish what we came to do and be done with him. Please.”

  Aye, pride is everything for Edward Bruce. To bloody hell and back with brotherly love.

  But pushing down my own pride was like swallowing a shard of glass. I nodded and moved back toward my brother, my chin hung low in feigned abeyance. “I’ll remain. And my men. If you’ll accept my humble apology, Edward ... and my service.” Cautiously, I held my hand out in truce.

  Edward stormed at me and slapped my hand away. His eyes glared with the heat of a branding iron. “Your apology stinks as much as the hand you wipe your ass with. Keep it to yourself. But you’ll fight for me, by God, Robert ... because you’re good for that and you made a promise to do it.”

  Every fiber in me struggled to stay in control. “You’re right – I did. I ... I should not have threatened you. My temper is my master, at times.” At that point, I thought I couldn’t lower myself much further. To roll belly up before Edward was to risk being gutted alive. But anger and threats had gotten me nothing but more trouble from him.

  Randolph was right. I should finish this. Go home. Edward was the stone and I a drowning man.

  I bowed my head to Edward and marched away from the edge of camp. The stars cowered behind clouds of ice. Beyond the circle of the campfire glow, the world lay dark and dangerous. I walked further and further until the drunken laughter and bloated tales of battle shattered on the brittle air like icicles falling.

  Although drawn to the stand of woods far beyond the camp, I stopped at the base of an ancient tree that stood alone on the plain, realizing the danger of venturing into the forest. I sank down there, clasped my knees and tried to think. But all I could do was fight with my own anger and curse my own poor judgment.

  Footsteps landed softly upon the crisp, winter-dead grass. A shadow, a black figure floating in a field of gray, strode low and swift across the open ground. As I listened for the stranger’s coming, gauged his position and distance, with smooth slowness I drew my blade from its scabbard. I slipped behind the tree and waited.

  The figure stumbled forth, panting. I leapt out and rammed my sword point at a heaving chest, stopping just inches from plunging it through bone and lung.

  “Mother of – !” I shouted. “Did you wish to die tonight, Thomas? What were you thinking, sneaking up on me like that?”

  Randolph gulped, then pushed the blade away with his fingertips. “What was I thinking? I was wondering what you were doing. I certainly wasn’t going to let you just wander off without a word and walk straight into Irish hands.”

  Relieved, I sheathed my sword and plopped down on the cold ground, exhausted in both body and spirit.

  “I’m not sure that was the right thing to do, giving in to Edward like that,” I lamented. “I’ve never done that before. Never thought I would. Don’t even know why I did it just now. But I had to make peace to salvage this campaign. What I fear, worst of all, Thomas, is that he might take sides with the King of England the moment I will no longer do his bidding.”

  “I don’t think you need to fear that, Uncle. He’s too proud for that. Edward Bruce will stand stripped naked alone in the world before he fights alongside the English.”

  “Once that would have been true.” I plowed my hands through my hair, grimacing as I pulled at the tight, sore skin around my wound. “But anymore, I don’t know him. And I certainly don’t trust him. I pushed him here to get him out of my sight. All I did was sever the one thin strand left between us. He no longer cares about Scotland. Only about Edward, King of Ireland.”

  “Robert, Uncle...” – Randolph knelt before me, touching my knee lightly – “you cannot save Edward, because Edward ...” He lowered his eyes and turned his head away.

  I put my hand over his and clenched it. “I know. Edward seeks to destroy himself.”

  From camp, I heard again the stories and songs of the after-battle, rolling in waves of elation. Remembered better times. Good times, crouching in the forest next to Edward in the thin night of summertime, no sleep to be had. Falling upon the enemy at dawn. Watching foe after foe fall before his blade.

  Edward – strong, handsome, brave to a fault – as he used to be.

  As I had risen, he had fallen. My greatest mistake had been in loving him and wanting for him what he himself did not care to grasp.

  Ch. 13

  Robert the Bruce – Dublin, 1317

  A thick, choking smoke hovered above Dublin. I stood beside Edward and Randolph, our collective forces spread out over the crest of a hill, watching the black plumes billow from thatched roofs. Rather than allow foreigners to ransack outlying dwellings, the townsfolk of Dublin had set fire to them first. Bridges had been sawed away, toppled and torched. Crofts reduced to ashes. Livestock driven off or slaughtered and left to rot. The very same things we had done to the English for years.

  “Shit upon them.” Edward poked his sword point at the ripped innards of a spoiled cow carcass lying across the road. “This one could have fed a family for weeks and now what? Wasted for spite. In the midst of a famine, even. Imbeciles.”

  “Is there no way across the Liffey?” Randolph asked.

  “Not without drowning half our men,” I said. Across the river, Irish waved their arms and jeered at us, while around them flames leapt from one house to another. I turned my face east toward the sea and drew in air, but all I could smell was putrefying animal flesh and acrid smoke. “What now, Edward?”

  Shrugging, he scratched behind his ear. “We could lay siege ... but as you know, brother, I’ve not the patience to sit on my hands and wait for those worm-brained idiots to starve.”

  “Aye,” I began, “it could just as well be us eating our own horses before they give in. Food is sparse. But no doubt they’ve been hoarding grain in anticipation of our arrival. Where do we go now?”

  Edward raised his chin. “West, maybe? Or south? Let us seek the advice of O’Brien. He knows his own people.”

  I said nothing to that. O’Brien may have been Irish and yesterday he may have known what another of them was thinking or had said, but today was altogether different.

  O’Brien was retrieved from his clansmen and brought forward. He stood in front of us wearing a smirk and with his fists planted firmly on his sword belt. A young man, but bold and desperate to lead, he had won the loyalty, if only for now, of those of his kinsman adamantly opposed to the English and any of their adherents.

  “Munster,” he announced in a jaunty tone, as if eager to lay low old archrivals. “I have word they’ll rise in your favor when you go there. It will be the beginning of the whole army of Ireland flocking to your cause.”

  At that, Randolph and I exchanged dubious glances. The army of Ireland had not been one for centuries. If ever the Scots had trouble agreeing amongst themselves, the Irish were tenfold worse.

  At Edward’s insistence, we marched at once toward Limerick and found ourselves faced across the Shannon by Brian O’Brien’s own kinsman, Murrough. They were not going to allow us to pass without a gory fight. Once again, we turned back – this time toward Ulster.

  The journey was arduous. Sleet pelted us daily. When it was not raining ice, the north wind peeled the skin from our faces. Spring came late and even then barely. The land had been stripped clean as a bone and run roughshod many times over. The locals we chanced upon bore the ghostly look of starvation. Fights erupted daily, not only between Scots and Irish, but also among my own men.

  Along the way, many of the Irish crept away in the night. My greatest fear was that they would join with the opposition and fall upon the very men they had fought beside: us. But such fears never came to pass. More than likely, they just went on home.

  We lost dozens to sickness. Miles that might have taken us only days to travel instead took weeks. Our horses went lame, even the best of the
m, and we were forced to relieve many of their misery.

  One late March morning, a pale sun broke above the river of mist that hung over the boglands of Tipperary. On either side of the road, the bog spread far and flat. Only here, where one could see to the horizon, could we escape trouble. We had been harried recently by a contingent of local peasants and although we had managed to fend them off without loss of life, some of our remaining supplies had been stolen. We barely had the resources to go on and yet we could not stay. Edward rode the length of the road, roaring threats to prod the bedraggled column along.

  As we gathered our scarce belongings to begin on the road north, a cry rent the air. I bolted in the direction of its source. Amongst a small group of women, Sorcha lay curled sideways on the ground, holding her knees up toward her chest. She stifled another scream, splayed her legs apart and forced her energies into her belly, bearing down hard.

  An older woman with sharp cheekbones and gray hair gazed at Sorcha, then at me. “The bairn comes. The king’s bairn.”

  A crowd gathered around Sorcha. Edward bellowed for the throng to part before him, as if he were Moses himself expecting the Red Sea to divide at his very presence. Still on the back of his bony mount, Edward rolled his eyes and flipped the embroidered hem of his cloak over his shoulders.

  He spat at the ground, barely missing the old woman. “Leave her behind with some of the women. The brat will come when it’s ready. We’ve miles to cover and no friend in this territory.”

  “Which is why we shouldn’t leave her like this.” I knelt and took Sorcha’s hand, clammy with sweat. Between her gripping pains she looked up at me, smiled faintly and drew a deep breath as she waited for the next wave to push the baby downward through her pelvis.